Damp. Dank. The fading, washed out scents of neglect smeared over the dying memory of vibrant life.

Threadbare carpets showing wood through what was left of their runners, once fine wall papers crack mazed and mold ridden, peeling back and away from bubbling, warped sheetrock. The walls stained yellow and brown, smeared with all manner of things that were probably best left unexplored.

The air held the not-so-faint bite of dust, dirt to it, a tickle and grab at the back of the throat, the tip of the nose. And a general feeling of confused dismay.

Perhaps once, years ago, the hotel had been a fine one. A shining beacon to tourists and travelers and lovers alike. An oasis in the dark of night, or the bright of day, offering a place to rest and relax for a day or two. Room service on tap twenty-four/seven, one hundred plus channels, free internet, turn down service, and an awesome bar. Now though, the building was a slow decaying beast hunkered down at the edge where the Slums began, and empty lands ended, or vice versa.

Every night, every day, her attention was drawn there, pulled inexorably by new voices in the murmuring, the constant whispering in the back of her mind. The small chorus that offered words of thanks in the slightly offhand manner one might use when speaking to an old acquaintance who might become a friend brought a deepening of the smile on her lips. Set them to twitching.

They offered thanks, but so very rarely begged for help or deliverance. So rarely demanded intercession or offered bargains. It was refreshing, it was gratifying.

And Thorn was very definitely listening.